Changes
by Gabble.Ratchet
Summary: How much would you be willing to change to satisfy your lover? Tonks experiments. 1-shot HPNT, HPHG(implied). Rated R for sexual content.


"Harry! What's wrong with you?" Tonks demanded, blowing a drop of sweat off her upper lip. She was close – her whole body seemed electrically charged – but she could tell that he was flagging, and it was working against her desire. She stopped her rhythmic movement and peered down at her lover, his normally untidy mop of black hair plastered to his forehead, his chest and abdomen glistening in the candlelight. She felt him begin to soften inside her, and her anger flared.

"I'm sorry, Tonks, I really am," he said, his voice suddenly small. "I ... I just don't know what's wrong. It's just not working tonight."

_Tonight?_ A small voice sneered in her head. This was not the first time their lovemaking had fizzled. Usually she had nothing to complain about; since they began sleeping together, about six months after Harry graduated from Hogwarts and taken up residence at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, they had had many nights of blazing passion, of screams and bites and licks and upturned furniture and saltysweetmuskymilky and waking up in a tangle of limbs and sheets in one or another of the house's seemingly innumerable bedrooms. But every so often – and truthfully, more often than not as of late – they would come up against a wall, where no amount of grinding, bucking, or thrusting would seem to have the desired effect. On nights like those the best they could hope for was to fumble along like a couple of clueless virgins, each hoping to inadvertently hit the right switch that would make the other one come, so they could just get through it, roll over, and fall asleep, hoping that neither would mention the unpleasantness in the morning.

She could read the frustration on his face clearly. She was all that he had, and she was all too aware of it. Ron was still at St. Mungo's, and the prognosis was dim. Hermione had fled the country immediately following graduation; everyone supposed the final battle had been too much for her to bear, and she wanted to make as clean a break as possible. With Dumbledore and Lupin gone, It was left to Tonks to pick up the pieces, and she usually counted herself lucky for it.

"Is it me, Harry?" she asked, and she was surprised by the tenderness in her voice. She eased off of him and sidled next to him in between the sateen sheets.

"No! Of course not!" he protested. "It's just ... I don't know _what_ it is," he complained, "but I swear it's not you."

"Is there some ... _other_ way I could be that would help you?" She stifled a sudden sense of anxiousness in the pit of her stomach. She had never used her powers as a Metamorphmagus as a sexual aid before, and she worried what it would mean if he found some other woman's body arousing. Not that he had ever given her reason to worry; he had asked her early on to remain in her natural form around him. At first, she was reluctant; she had never thought herself beautiful, and many of her transformations were to compensate for her perceived shortcomings. Her skin was pale – so pale that the veins in her arms and chest fairly glowed blue – and her build was much like Harry's, slight and athletic, with small, firm breasts and slim hips. She always felt her nose too severe, too sharp, and her mouth had the same cruel line that ran rampant through the Black family tree. The only features she had any confidence in, ironically enough, were her stone-grey eyes and her silky black hair – also legacies of the Black line, and usually the first things she changed when on assignment.

Harry propped himself up on one elbow and cradled her cheek with his free hand. "Tonks," he said tenderly, "I don't want anyone but you. Honest."

"You're sure about that?" she asked, hesitantly, before screwing up her face in that look of intent concentration he always found so irresistible. Almost instantly, her breasts swelled, becoming fuller and heavier, the areolas and nipples growing and darkening. His eyes widened and he murmured, "Well, you can't expect me to say no to that, now can you?" and then his hands were on her breasts, rolling her nipples to an exquisite stiffness with his palms. She moaned softly into his ear as her hand found his erection and began stroking it in a firm, predictable rhythm.

He gasped sharply. "Softer ... not so firm." And almost without meaning to, her hands had become smaller, softer; she was surprised to see that her nails were now closely trimmed and unlacquered. She cupped his balls gently and reveled in the purr that issued from the back of his throat, and her eyes widened appreciatively as he stiffened under her touch.

And then his hands had left her breasts and were scrabbling to pull her closer, and they were a tangle of lips and tongues and teeth. He sucked and bit at her lower lip with desperation, and she willed it to become fuller, softer, then did the same to the top lip, the better to mash against his as their tongues swiped against each other with abandon.

Once the alterations began, and Harry responded so forcefully, Tonks found herself willing different parts to alter their shape in a manner she knew he would find more pleasing. She didn't know _how_ she knew exactly what his body was aching for, and fear surged in the pit of her stomach – what if she was starting something she didn't know how to finish? – but these thoughts, _any_ thoughts, really, were swept away in the waves of lust that coursed through her.

Harry's hand scrabbled at the back of her head, trying to grab hold of her hair, and she felt her follicles thicken and grow, curling around his fingers – _the better to hold on to, my dear_ – and as she broke the kiss and pulled back to look into his fiery emerald eyes she noticed, behind the lust that dilated his pupils ... _what?_ Fear? Surprise? Sadness? She couldn't tell, and at this point she didn't care. Grabbing his erection firmly, she straddled his hips with a nimbleness that surprised even her and sank down upon him with a single plunge. They both gasped in unison and remained still, their eyes boring deep into one another. Then she felt her muscles wrap tightly around him and she raised herself up on him, slowly, thrilling to the feel of him against her walls. His hands cupped her buttocks, and she obligingly allowed them to swell to a more comfortable proportion as he lowered her onto him and raised her again.

They settled into a slow, gentle rhythm, each stroke sending bolts of lightning through her abdomen as he hit her most sensitive nerves, and she was surprised to see tears welling in his eyes. He clung to her desperately as he brought his hips up to meet hers, and she began to feel the sadness mingling with the exquisite shocks that accompanied her downward thrusts. Her vision began to smear, though whether it was from the tears now beginning to form in her own eyes or from her screwing up her face for what they both knew by now would be the last change. ...

"Tonks," Harry cried, his voice husky and choked with emotion. "Please ... don't do it ... we can go on from here, but not if you do this. ..."

She smiled sadly down at him. "This ... this is what you want, Harry. We've both always known it." He made to speak, but she held shaking fingers to his lips to quiet him. "It's all right, Harry. I still love you. I only want you to be happy. ..."

Then she felt her nose shorten, the tip turn up just slightly. She looked down at him and said, "Take me home, Harry. Take me home, this one last time."

She felt his fingers clench about her buttocks as he began pulling her down to meet his bucking hips, and as her orgasm welled up and spilled over, she almost didn't care whether the tears were for what she had lost or for what she had in that moment. She squeezed her thighs as she came and moaned throatily as she felt him emptying into her. They clung to each other for a long time before, trembling, Tonks clambered off of Harry and slowly padded to the full-length mirror that stood beside the wardrobe.

She knew, even before she reached the mirror, who she would see reflected back at her. It was the dirty little secret of their relationship, the unspoken desire she doubted _he_ was even aware of – until just now. But still she had to see with her own eyes, so she swallowed hard and stepped into the mirror's view.

It was truly an amazing likeness, she thought, particularly recreating it from memory. The hair, thick and wild, was perhaps a bit too deep a shade of brown, and she doubted that Hermione's nose turned up quite that sharply – and of course she was nearly a head taller, so the basic proportions were off – but she had to say that the resemblance was striking. Suddenly her eyes swam with tears, and she stifled a sob as she pawed at her face, wiping them away. As if from an ocean away she heard him say, "I'm sorry, Tonks."

She moved to the valet to retrieve her clothes. Exhaling deeply, she replied, "You don't have anything to apologise for, Harry."

"I didn't mean for this to happen," he said. "You have to believe that. I was happy with us."

She pulled her shirt over her head and began to step into her pants. "It's not your fault. Please believe that. I know you didn't ask for it. It was me, Harry, okay? I just ... wanted to make you happy. And somehow, I knew that that would."

He was sitting up in bed, a stricken look on his face. She stole a bittersweet smile as she realised that he just now understood that it was over between them.

"What am I going to do without you?" he sobbed. "I don't know how to be with anyone else."

She finished buttoning up her trousers and moved slowly to his bedside. Gently she sank down onto the bed next to him and cradled his cheek in her thin, pale hand, wiping away a stray tear with her thumb.

"Find Hermione, Harry. Let her know how you feel. You deserve her, and she would be honoured to know she's earned your love." He began to protest but she quieted him with a kiss. "Don't worry about me. I'm a big girl; I'll be fine. I'm just happy for the time we had."

Then she was gone. Harry sat in his bed for what felt like hours, weeping silently. When he had no more tears to shed, he climbed out of his bed and moved to his desk. Sitting down, he produced a fresh sheet of parchment, uncorked his ink bottle, and picked up his eagle-feather quill.


End file.
